Matt Tegenkamp is riding the red line -- that razor-thin invisible striation that separates maximum performance from complete breakdown. "It's the difference between running a great race and … " he pauses recalling a too poignant example needed to finish the analogy, "and totally blowing up."

The newly minted American-record holder at two miles has had his share of both. "When I ran 13:04 (in Stockholm in 2006) I perfectly managed the line," he says. "Physiologically, I was riding it the entire race, but never once stepped over it."

His voice lowers and slows, "Compare that to my 3K one month later (in Rieti). The first 800 was 1:58. I hit the mile in 4:01. That was it. I was cooked. It would have been a death march to the finish."

Uncharacteristically, Tegenkamp dropped out. What does he make of his record-setting performance in last year's Prefontaine Classic 2-mile? "Well, I definitely didn't go over the line." He pauses for caffeine. "In hindsight, I think I could have pushed a little harder."

But running fast times in 2007 wasn't part of the Master Plan. Getting ready for the world championships was. "Coach [Jerry] Schumacher had a long-term plan for me the day I arrived at the University of Wisconsin," Tegenkamp says. "We've made some adjustments along the way, but he's never wavered from it. NCAA champion, U.S. champion, American record holder, Olympic medalist -- that's what we've been aiming for since day one."

So while 2006 was about running fast, 2007 focused on championship racing. "I've spent the last two years developing the tools necessary to compete on the world level," he continues. "In 2006 we focused on strength and the ability to ride the red line as long as possible. No matter the pace, Schumacher told me to stay with the lead pack for as long as possible."

While most Americans stay off a hot early pace, especially in international competition, Tegenkamp was sticking his nose in the fire. "Then this year, with worlds, we totally changed the focus," he says. "It was all about closing speed. Once I hit May, I was training more like a 1500-meter runner."

While most Americans were training to make the world team, Tegenkamp was training to win a medal. He missed the bronze by just three one-hundredths of a second. If not for Bernard Lagat's win, Tegenkamp's fourth-place finish would have been the best ever by an American at 5,000 meters in a world championship.

This aggressive racing style is shaping the next generation of American distance runners. No longer are the East Africans unbeatable. In the stretch run of Tegenkamp's world championship race, he blew past Tariku Bekele, Mo Farah, and Abraham Cherkos. Only Lagat ran a faster final 200 meters. No longer are Americans content with just making a team. Americans are actually talking about winning medals in Beijing. No longer are Americans sitting in the back, hoping to pick off a fading Kenyan or two in the final lap. Tegenkamp took the lead and pushed the pace in his semi-final heat in Osaka, showing that Americans can dictate a race at the world level.

Don't underestimate this shift in attitude and racing. No matter how many medals American distance runners bring back from Beijing -- even if it's zero -- the tides have turned.

For too many years, American distance running lived in the past. Pre, Frank Shorter, Joanie, and Bill Rodgers were still the names most often associated with the sport, despite the fact that all four were either long retired or (in Pre's case) dead. Thankfully today's current runners weren't listening. Ryan Hall, Alan Webb, and Dathan Ritzenhein were blazing their own paths, setting their own records. They respected the past, but looked to the future.

When those three athletes went to college, they took with them a new attitude and set lofty goals. At the same time, the ubiquity of the Internet allowed the stories and times and training methods to spread like wildfire. America's next generation of distance runners was born. This was no more evident than in the liberal Midwestern city of Madison, Wis., where a collegiate dynasty was being constructed one Badger mile at a time, just the way Jerry Schumacher planned it.

The camera is focused squarely on Chris Solinsky, the five-time NCAA champion who just came off the greatest post-collegiate debut season in history (3:12, 7:36, and 3:39) after signing a six-figure shoe contract with Nike.

"I'm not afraid to mix it up with anyone in the world," he says. His white hat was turned backwards, but he took it off for the interview. It matches the white snakeskin Air Jordans he just picked up on Nike's tab at the Employee Store down the road. "I set my goals [this season] thinking that they were just beyond reach, [times] that I thought I could run [under] perfect conditions."

Keeping their distance, but still close enough to eavesdrop, are 30 or so high school athletes in town for Nike Team Nationals. They've already collected his autograph. Now they're hoping for one final nugget that will make them the next Chris Solinsky.

When asked if his goal for 2008 is to win the Olympic trials, Solinksy looks to his left where Schumacher is standing. Solinsky smiles, Schumacher doesn't. "I'm going in and winning it," he says. "I have tremendous respect for Bernard [Lagat]. I have tremendous respect for Matt [Tegenkamp]. But if you don't consider yourself one of the favorites, you're foolish."

Off to the side, not caught on camera, Schumacher cringes. A minute later, the camera swings in his direction. He quickly turns his back and walks away.

Jerry Schumacher should be credited as much as anyone with the resurgence of American distance running. (The key words being should be.) His athletes have performed at least as well as, if not better than, any other training group in the country. Tegenkamp, 26, and Solinsky, 23, are proving that they can mix it up with the East Africans. Ex-Badger Simon Bairu, a two-time NCAA cross country champion, ran personal bests in every event from 1500 (3:45) to 10,000 (27:50) last summer, a season that culminated with a trip to the world championships.

Schumacher resurrected the career of journeyman Jonathan Riley, the Stanford grad who was runner-up to Tegenkamp at the 2007 U.S. indoor championships (3,000m), ran a personal best 5,000 in 2007 (13:19), and just missed a trip to worlds, finishing fourth at the U.S. championships. Even the quiet and unassuming Tim Nelson, who finished up at Wisconsin last spring, put together a season that would make many higher-paid athletes envious, running 1500, 3,000, and 10,000 personal bests in 2007 (3:42, 7:53, and 28:04, respectively). It doesn't end there. In the Madison pipeline are Matt Withrow, Stuart Eagon, Evan Jager, Jack Bolas, and Craig Miller, all current members of Schumacher's Wisconsin Badgers.

Unlike the other professional training groups in America, Schumacher has built Madison without third-party resources. Alberto Salazar's Oregon Project has Nike's deep pockets. The Hansons have Saturn and Brooks. Ryan Hall, Meb Keflezighi, and the other athletes in Mammoth Lakes have Running USA and a grant from the New York Road Runners. The same grant funds that go to Brad Hudson's group in Eugene. So why is Jerry Schumacher the best coach you've never heard of?

"I don't like to do interviews," he concedes, evidenced by his quick getaway when the camera turned in his direction. "I love coaching, not talking about coaching." If actions speak louder than words, Jerry Schumacher is deafening. "Schumacher is a Midwesterner, like most of us," Tegenkamp explains about the Badger's team makeup. "He's a family man, he's conservative, he's blue collar, he's tough. That's why we all chose Wisconsin."

You can't live and train in Madison if you're not tough. "Sure, the winters are hard," Schumacher admits, "but it prevents us from overtraining. Can you imagine these guys if the weather was 70 degrees and sunny every day? They'd be running around with their shirts off, trying to hammer each other every day."

Ask the athletes in February, when temperatures dip below zero and snow from last month still sits on the sidewalks, and you'll get a different story. "I hate the treadmill," Solinksy mutters, having just finished a 6-mile tempo run on one of the three treadmills in the Badger's locker room. He moves into the exercise room and right into his extensive core routine. "It's times like this that I wish we were somewhere warm," he says. "Schumacher likes to say that it's good for us, but I don't know." After a series of back bridge exercises, he lets up. "Maybe he's right. I mean, look at how well we're running. He's doing something right."

If there's one thing that's certain, it's this: Once you buy into the system, the sky is the limit. Solinsky might have a few chips left in his pocket, but Tegenkamp is all in.

January 2008: Matt Tegenkamp's Home, Madison, Wisconsin

ESPN HD is showing on the 40-something-inch flat-panel television, which sits in one corner of the family room. Two pieces of artwork hang on opposing walls, both Tegenkamp originals. ("I always enjoyed art class.") He sips from a glass of water. "Schumacher's program is about long-term development," he explains as his two dogs fight over a chew toy in the middle of the room. "It's about consistency and patience over a period of time." He punctuates consistency and patience like a politician on a stump speech. "At times it's frustrating because we just want to let loose." Do they ever? "Sure, we'll get away with it for an interval or two, but he's pretty quick to rein us in and get us back on pace."

Schumacher likes his gratification delayed. He's an architect, methodically putting the pieces together, paying special attention to timing, intensity, and frequency. He looks past the horizon. He sets goals above the clouds. He is the Bill Belichick of distance running (minus Spygate and a league full of enemies). And like Belichick's players, Tegenkamp talks about his coach with a great deal of respect and confidence. "He doesn't micro-manage us. He doesn't baby us," Tegenkamp says. "He gives us the plan and expects us to follow it. Do that and you'll run fast at the right time."

But following the Master Plan isn't as easy as it sounds, especially during those college years. Temptations abound in Madison, and running is a sport that requires letting off steam. "I did a lot of stupid things in college that were not conducive to training and racing," Tegenkamp admits. "I'm sure that contributed to many of my injuries."

In the newly renovated kitchen, his wife, a collegiate All-American herself and soon-to-be dietitian, pulls a hot loaf of bread out of the oven. "Thankfully I met Michelle," he says. "Being married has definitely contributed to my success. I eat better. I sleep more. I have a routine."

Michelle interrupts. "I'm heading out for a run. Let the bread cool first." She slips on her shoes and is out the door. The dogs drop the toy at the sound of the doorknob and frantically claw their way up the couch. They rest their hind legs on the back of the couch and their front paws on the windowsill, their eyes never leaving Michelle as she strides down the sidewalk.

Tegenkamp turns and joins the two dogs. "My entire lifestyle has changed with her around." He pauses. "Want a piece of bread?" So much for patience.

August 2007: Nagai Stadium, Osaka, Japan

Matt Tegenkamp looks out of place. His red hair and muscular 6-foot-2 frame are contrasted against his much shorter, much darker competitors. The athletes are gathered on the far side of the track, ready to be cut loose for their final strides before the start of the world championship 5,000 meter final. Most people are thrilled, maybe even surprised, that Matt made the final -- a victory in itself. He has a different plan.

Tegenkamp and Schumacher were once overlooked -- not ignored, but perhaps even worse, underestimated. Maybe they deserved it. Tegenkamp had suffered a series of injuries. Top college coaches weren't wearing a path to his Lees Summit, Mo., home in high school -- they were going after Don Sage, Dathan Ritzenhein, and Josh Rohatinsky. And the shoe companies weren't offering six-figure deals upon graduation -- they had their cash earmarked for Ryan Hall and Ian Dobson. Since 2002, Tegenkamp's freshman year, Schumacher's cross country teams have been favored to win multiple NCAA cross country titles. Instead, they've only brought home one, in 2005.

The first half of the race is pedestrian. Athletes are growing impatient. After the race, Tegenkamp would say, "It felt like slow motion." It certainly looked like it. "A part of me wanted to take the lead and push a little," he admired. "But I've learned at this level, in this type of race, you can't run away from guys. So I decided to sit tight and wait for the break. I knew I'd have to roll at the end."

In today's sport culture we want flash. We expect bold predictions and off-field drama. Aggression is demanded. Maybe that's how Tegenkamp and Schumacher have flown under the radar. Run into Schumacher at the track, on the street, or in a bar (water only), and you'll assume you just met a local elementary school teacher. At last year's U.S. championships in Indianapolis, Schumacher was camped out in the far corner of the track with his wife and four kids. "Daddy, when do Matt and Chris race?" his youngest son asked. Jerry placed his hand on the youngster's head, "In about two hours, buddy." His son's shoulders slumped, disappointed. He pushed back against the fence and slid his bottom to the ground, resuming his stone-tossing to pass the time. Aside from his red hair and faster-than-most PRs, Matt Tegenkamp isn't overly memorable. He's outspoken, but soft-spoken. He's passionate, but only around his friends. Matt Tegenkamp is a classic gentleman.

With one lap to go, Mo Farah, a Somali-born Brit, starts to roll. The pack splinters, leaving seven athletes to fight for three medals. Matt is one of them, parked at the back of the single-file line, riding the red line. Lagat, the Kenyan-born American, is in striking position. Ethiopia's Bekele looks strong. Kenya's Eliud Kipchoge is probably the favorite. They're all hanging off Farah's shoulder, ready to strike. Then it happens -- a pace change, fifth gear, completely red-lined. Tegenkamp is gapped. He's out of the hunt. "I couldn't cover the move right away, but I didn't panic," he remembers. "I just kept grinding away." But with a half-lap remaining, Matt finds another gear. It was the focus of 2006 -- staying with the lead pack for as long as possible -- combined with that of 2007 -- closing speed -- that allows Tegenkamp this opportunity. The crowd noise is deafening, especially in the section at the end of the home straight where the U.S., Kenyan, and Ethiopian athletes are gathered. As the athletes come off the final turn, Lagat looks poised to win his second gold. And -- who's that redhead? -- Tegenkamp is charging hard.

It's at this moment, on the other side of the planet, that one realizes what's really going on in Madison. There's a contradiction that reeks of hypocrisy. These laid-back, conservative, open-the-door-for-you, All-American boys are absolutely fearless on the track. The contrast -- on the track versus off -- is black and white. They race aggressively. They cut loose. They push the pace. It's downright un-American.

Lagat blows past Kipchoge, eyes wide, arms pumping. Gold and silver. Uganda's Moses Kipsiro is fading, Tegenkamp is closing. Forty meters remain. The stadium noise reaches a crescendo as the two approach the line. Kipsiro's left foot plants a meter from the finish, his torso twists right, causing his left shoulder to dip across the line. On his outside, Tegenkamp runs upright through the line. It's too close to call. Back in Madison, Jerry Schumacher, Chris Solinksy, Michelle Tegenkamp, and the Badger squad are watching the race online. While everyone waits for the official results, Lagat and Tegenkamp embrace, draped in an American flag.

The practice track, which sits behind the stadium and serves as the warm-up and cool-down area for the athletes, is dark and quiet. The official results were flashed on the stadium scoreboard 20 minutes earlier. Tegenkamp crumbled to the track; just three one-hundredths of a second separated him from the bronze medal. But now he's introspective, if almost happy. "Maybe if I went two steps earlier I could have gotten him." There are no temper tantrums, no throwing of spikes, no curse words. He accepts congratulations and exchanges pleasantries with Mo Farah. Convinced that the results won't change -- that the photo finish won't reveal something different -- we head for the exit. "Hey, does your phone work over here?" he asks. "I want to call Michelle and Schumacher."

February 2008: The Arboretum, Madison, Wisconsin

It doesn't need to be said. Not around here. This year is the most pivotal in the resurgence of American distance running. Across the country more than a dozen athletes are dreaming and training to be the one who goes down in the history books as the spark that lit the fire, like Frank Shorter and Joan Samuleson before them. But here in Madison there's an even more audacious goal. It's not spoken, but it is understood: to take all three spots on the U.S. Olympic 5,000-meter team -- three athletes, one coach, one city. As Tegenkamp, Solinsky, and Riley push through a hard tempo run on the Arboretum trails, Schumacher is back in his office, tinkering with the Master Plan.

Matt Taylor, a new media innovator, is best known for his "chasing…" series -- chasingTRADITION, chasingKIMBIA, and chasingGLORY. He's currently working on a book about 800-meter running with New York Times Best Seller Nicholas Sparks.